


The Colors of My Life

by threehundredthirtythree



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Healing, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-12-25 13:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12036495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threehundredthirtythree/pseuds/threehundredthirtythree
Summary: Cullen left the Inquisition and was found on the streets by Lace Harding. But his story didn't have to end there. "The Healer of Val Chevin" takes on his case, but what happens when Cullen starts regaining his memories -- especially those of his darkest moments?





	1. Chapter 1

_ “Commander -- I mean, Cullen, I’m sorry -- Are you -- is that really you?” _

_ He didn’t answer, just extended a hand. Coin, please, I need it. _

_ “Look, I can -- you’ll be all right, if you come with me.” _

_ He didn’t know why he got up, followed her where she was going. The hope that the dwarven woman might give him what he was looking for was stronger than his failing legs. _

_ “Excuse me, please, is there a healer here?” _

_ He didn’t look at the healer as she stepped forward, her skirts making a shushing sound against the sanded floor. _

_ “I’m sorry, but --” the healer began, then stopped. _

_ “Please, he needs help. And… and they say you work miracles. I was hoping…” _

_ There was a long silence. His head was pounding. Only one thing would make it go away, and if he couldn’t get it here, he’d find it somewhere. Somewhere. _

_ “How long has he been like this?” the healer said in a whisper. _

_ “I -- don’t know. He’s used lyrium for years, but… I saw him a year ago, and he… wasn’t like this. I didn’t think it would get this bad. He was so strong.” _

_ “He still is, if he’s survived this long. Please sit, ser,” the healer’s voice came through, low and musical and not blue enough for his need. _

_ He reached out to her. I need it, please. Coin. _

_ “You will have everything you require,” the healer said, gently pushing his shoulders. He sat. Eager. Waiting. Like a puppy. The part of him that was still himself despised it. _

_ “What happened?” the healer asked. She and the dwarven woman spoke while he heard the tell-tale, hopeful clink of glass bottles. _

_ “You may find this slightly different than you are used to,” the healer said to him as she handed him a vial. “I added elfroot, for the pain.” _

_ He didn’t care what she added. So long as the blue was there. _

_ He slept. _

 

* * *

 

“Wh-- where am I?”

He didn’t recognize any of his surroundings. A small room with cots and tables, bottles and supplies lining the walls -- a clinic? How had he come to a  _ clinic? _ Last he recalled… he struggled to think. Last he recalled, he was in a large-ish town, in Orlais. On the streets.

His cheeks burned with shame, and he thought perhaps it wasn’t for the first time.

“And he rejoins us,” came a woman’s voice, tinged with a slight, unplaceable accent. He thought he might have known someone who would be able to trace it, but… 

The woman was dressed in homespun brown robes, a brown nurse’s scarf on her head, and a plain white mask. Didn’t Orlesian masks have designs on them to indicate the family they represented? He seemed to recall learning that -- and scoffing at the idea.

“Attend to me, please,” she said, and had him follow a small glowing light with his eyes alone.

So she was a healer. And a mage.

“Excellently done, ser. Now, turn to one side --”

She continued her checkup, and he continued to feel profound embarrassment.

“Now, my dear, you may sit,” she said. “You’ve worried a great many people, let me tell you.”

“I…”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t sure he’d recall anyone. Who had he worried? Family? Friends? Loved ones?

“No getting ahead of ourselves.” The healer smiled kindly at him. “Let us begin at the beginning. Answer as quickly as you can. Do you recall your name?”

Words like  _ Commander _ and  _ Knight-Captain _ came to mind immediately, but the name itself took a moment.

“Cullen -- right?” he asked, hating that he needed validation.

She nodded, her smile widening.

“Where are you from?”

“Ferelden,” he said. That one was easier.

“Where  _ in _ Ferelden? Do you know?”

He closed his eyes -- there was a lake, and a small farmhouse, and a tall statue in the center square -- but the name escaped him. He shook his head.

“We’ll come back to that one,” she said, squeezing his arm. “What did you do? What was your job?”

“I -- was a Templar. But… I’m not one anymore.”

“What did you do after that?”

“I joined the Inquisition,” he said. The statement took his breath away. It felt weighty, significant somehow.

“You were the  _ Commander _ of the Inquisition. You were in charge of the army,” the healer replied.

“How -- do you know that?”

She smiled. “I thought I was asking the questions,” she joked gently. “But the woman who brought you here -- she worked for the Inquisition as well, and it was she who recognized you. She told me. Her name was Lace Harding, and she’ll be pleased to hear you’re awake.”

“How long was I -- unconscious?”

“A good choice of words. You’ve been awake, but not aware, these past eight months.”

“Eight --  _ months. _ ”

Nearly a  _ year _ of lyrium madness. Somehow he didn’t need to be told that’s what it was. And yet… 

“Why am I not craving it?”

Her smile turned sad. “I gave you a potion that made lyrium less effective in your system, combined with giving you less lyrium each day -- your body has lost its taste for it. That’s a large part of why you’ve ‘woken up,’ as it were.”

“I -- thank you.”

“Oh, think nothing of it! It’s my job,” she said, with obviously feigned cheerfulness. “Now, I’m certain you want to have a proper think about things, and you’d like to feel a bit more like yourself again, no?”

He looked down at himself -- his beard was larger and more disheveled than any he’d ever seen, and, running a hand through his hair, he realized it was almost beyond hope. (Clean, but long and matted and  _ horrid. _ )

“Upstairs, I’ve set out some fresh clothes for you, as well as a washtub. Take your time, and come down when you’re ready. I’ll be back in a bit. I’m just going to the market for something to eat. Any preference?”

He didn’t recall what his preferences even  _ were. _ He hesitated. The healer waved a hand, as if waving his embarrassment away.

“Never mind! I’ll pick up something traditionally Fereldan. Taste and smell are known to often jog memories, so perhaps it will help.”

Cullen wandered around the clinic for a few moments. She’d forgotten to tell him where the stairs  _ were _ . (Turns out: behind a bookcase full of supplies.)

He found himself in a kitchen, clean and bright with the early afternoon sun. It was waiting for its mistress to come home and light the fire. In the middle of the room was a large cat, once-orange fur half gone grey, relaxing in a just-so sunbeam.

“Mrrrown,” it said to him in salutation.

“Um. Yes. You too,” he replied.

He stumbled into a room as he poked about blindly -- the bedroom. A large oak bed with a pale green blanket was just about all that fit in the room. But on the wall, he saw an unframed portrait of a young man with short, red-brown hair, patting a large brown dog. A Mabari, for certain. He was smiling at something, and his amber-colored eyes were bright. Was he a brother? A son? Cullen couldn’t tell, but the man in the portrait looked kind -- and familiar.

He left the bedroom, and found another, smaller bedroom -- with the washtub and clothes the healer had mentioned. Not just that, but a straight razor, a bowl, a comb, and a mirror. Cullen shaved the horrible beard away, as best he could with shaking hands. There was some stubble left at the end, but -- it was better. There was nothing to be done about the rest of his hair but to wash it, comb it, and tie it back for now.

He stripped out of the clothes he was wearing -- simple and homespun, much like what the healer had worn ( _ why did he have those, where were his clothes _ ) -- and stepped into the bath. Cullen was considerably less filthy than he’d anticipated. Over the course of the eight months he’d been here, he  _ must _ have had at least one other bath. The thought made his cheeks burn again. He wasn’t certain why, exactly -- though there were plenty of reasons.

_ These memories have always haunted me. If -- if I cannot endure this…  _

…  _ There will be no further distractions. You have my word. _

He leaned his head back on the edge of the washtub and closed his eyes. He was almost grateful for the gaping holes in his memory for the moment, though it was maddening not to be able to recall the face of the person he’d been speaking to, or what they’d said. Had it even happened? Was it a dream?

Sighing heavily, he took the soap and  _ aggressively _ washed himself, his skin turning a dark pink wherever he scrubbed. As if he could wash the stain away of these long months in lyrium madness. As if he could wash away the shame of having succumbed to it in the first place.

“Hello the house!” called a voice. It sounded like the healer.

“I -- um. I’m in here,” Cullen answered.

“No rush! Take your time!”

He took her at her word, staying in the tub until his hands started to wrinkle. Yet the water hadn’t gotten any colder -- oh. Right. The healer was a mage. She’d probably thought of that.

Still, when he started to smell something savory and delicious coming out of the kitchen, his stomach gave a treacherous grumble. How long had it been since he’d eaten?

He got out of the tub and couldn’t resist a look in the mirror. His chest was scarred, and his body looked thin.  _ Worn, _ somehow, as if he had once been strong, but had atrophied since. He pulled the smallclothes, the black pants, and the crimson shirt the healer had left for him. They were clearly  _ not his _ , or at least, not his  _ now. _ The shirt hung off him as though it were made for a broader man, and the pants were loose -- though not  _ so _ loose as to be falling off. He had made himself decent  _ enough _ to get some dinner, he supposed.

“And here he is!” the healer said as Cullen came into the kitchen. She sounded delighted, looking up from her large cookpot at him. “How are you feeling, my dear?”

“I -- better, thank you.”

“I’m glad.” She beamed at him, and he lost his breath for a moment. Under her mask, she had a  _ lovely _ smile.

“That -- um. What are you making?”

“Lamb stew,” she said. “I did promise you something Fereldan and traditional.”

His mouth was  _ watering _ . It smelled incredible.

“Do you need any help?” he asked.

“That’s kind of you to offer, thank you. But I think it’s just about done, so please, sit.”

He sat and watched as she ladled soup into two small wooden bowls. She didn’t seem especially wealthy, and lamb was expensive. Was she doing this out of kindness? How was he going to repay her for this?

She brought a bowl over to him, then sat across the table in the other chair. The healer sipped her soup gently, mopping up the meat with a piece of bread. He didn’t want to seem uncouth, but he was  _ starving. _ Exercising the self-control to not devour the entire  _ pot _ of stew felt like pushing a boulder up a hill.

“So, while I was out, I ran into the young lady who brought you here. She said she’d like to see you for herself. What would you say to meeting with her tomorrow?”

Cullen started. He -- he wasn’t sure if he wanted anyone from his former life to see him like this. He’d been strong. Competent. And now -- he couldn’t stand to look at  _ himself. _ How could anyone  _ else _ stand to look at him?

His uncertainty and fear must have crossed his face, because the healer leaned forward and lowered her voice soothingly.

“You don’t have to meet with her if you don’t wish to,” she said, “but I have to recommend that you reconnect with people you knew when you can. It may jog your memory, or it may not, but it  _ will _ provide you with support for when you’re well enough to not need any further assistance from me.”

He blinked.

“You’re worried, yes? About their opinions of you? That’s only natural,” she went on. “But these people care about you. They want you to be well, and they want to help. Best make use of that, if you can. Not everyone has the option.” She smiled sadly at him. “Regardless, it’s your choice, though I will have to insist that you meet with at least  _ one _ person you used to know. If only so they know you’re alive, well, and not being taken advantage of by an unscrupulous healer.”

She ate a few bites with a deliberate politeness, as if she were allowing him the space to think a bit.

“... What do I do  _ now?” _ he asked.

“For the moment? You heal as best you can. You’re not yet well enough to leave the healing house. But once you are? It’s up to you.” She shrugged, but kindly. “You can take this time to figure it out for yourself.”

He didn’t remember the last time he’d been able to decide his own path. Had he ever? He must have, right? He chose to join the templars. He joined the Inquisition. Those were his own choices. They must have been.

“I -- I’ll meet with her,” he said. He couldn’t lose this lifeline to his past, to the man he used to be.

“With your permission, there is another person I’d like the both of us to speak with,” the healer replied. “There’s someone else I know of who lost his memory to lyrium. Different circumstances, but he may be able to tell us what you can reasonably expect to get back, and how he did so.”

“Oh -- of course. Do… I know him?”

“I’m not certain. You lived in the same city for a time, and it’s plausible that you may have met, but I don’t know if you were acquainted.”

He nodded slowly.

“So -- big day tomorrow, then. I’ll see about contacting our expert, and you’ll meet with Lace Harding. Is there anything else you need?”

“It -- sounds vain, but…” He touched the unfortunate ponytail.

“Your hair?” she asked, grinning widely.

Cullen sighed. “It’s -- too long this way.”

“I’ll see about getting a barber to come by,” she replied, chuckling. “And it isn’t vain at all. You can’t tell, under the nurse’s scarf, but my hair is very,  _ very _ short. It was not a well-thought-out decision, and I hate it.”

He smiled -- a small one, but genuine. She understood. That was enough, for now.

“I -- hate to ask, but… how does… payment usually work here?”

“Fereldan straightforwardness! I don’t get to see that much anymore.” She chuckled. “I don’t charge anything for treatment. I’m a researcher as well as a healer, so the opportunity to find new ways to cure illnesses of all kinds is  _ invaluable. _ ”

“Then… how do you keep the healing house going?”

“I came into some money several years back. I live simply and spend little on myself, so I have more coin to help patients.”

“So this is a calling, for you.”

She laughed darkly. “You could say that.”

The sun had set by this time, and Cullen took a second helping of stew. He resisted taking a third, not wishing to eat the healer out of house and home. He yawned widely, more tired than he’d expected, though he’d done very little today. The healer just smiled at him.

“You can stay in the guest room, if you like. You can also sleep downstairs on one of the cots, but they are  _ unforgiving _ on the back, so I can’t recommend it,” she said. “I’ll be downstairs for a bit if you need anything, all right?”

“Thank you,” he said. “Really -- I don’t know… you’re being kinder than I deserve.”

“Cullen,” the healer replied warmly. “There is  _ no _ kindness that you do not deserve.”

He blushed -- and the healer sat back abruptly, clearing her throat.

“You should… get some rest,” she said.

“Right. Of course.”

She stood, brushing her hands on her skirt, and started down the stairs.

“Wait --” Cullen called.

She turned, her placid smile back in place as she looked at him.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She paused a moment, looking surprised that he’d asked.

“...Amelie.”

“Then -- thank you for everything, Amelie.”

She looked down for a moment, then returned his gaze, her smile gone sad.

“You’re welcome, Cullen.”

She went down the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

_How far they must have delved into my thoughts…_

_Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

_Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

_If anything in you is human, kill me now and stop this game…_

_Templars make sacrifices so they can serve the people. Isn’t that the life you’ve chosen?_

_You broke the others, but I will stay strong. For my sake. For theirs…_

* * *

 

Cullen woke after a night of fitful sleep -- nightmares plagued him. _(Had he always had nightmares, or was this new?)_ Perhaps he should tell Amelie about them. Maybe she’d have a solution.

Wait -- it was still dark. He sat up in bed, trying to figure out why he’d woken so early.

He heard a cry that could _only_ be Amelie, and raced through the kitchen to her room. He saw her sitting up in bed, her head in her hands. At the sound of his entrance, she looked up. In the dark, he couldn’t quite see her face, but he thought maybe she was crying.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Oh -- Did I wake you? I’m sorry.” She sounded as if she were struggling to hold in some emotion. And she didn’t answer the question.

“ _Are_ you all right?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he said, annoyed.

He wasn’t expecting a soft chuckle to be his answer.

“Terribly stubborn, aren’t you?” she asked, fondly. “I… just had a bad dream, that’s all.”

“You have nightmares?” Cullen softened, feeling an odd kinship. He hadn't expected to have this in common with his gentle healer.

“More, lately.”

“Isn’t there something you can do for that?”

“There are sleeping draughts that prevent dreams entirely, but you don’t feel rested after taking them, and sometimes people develop a… reliance on them to sleep,” Amelie said. “The most effective way to combat nightmares is a technique called ‘lucid dreaming.’”

“What… is that?” Cullen asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

“It’s a way to retain your consciousness while you dream. You can then control the dream entirely, and reshape it to your liking.”

“Can’t only mages do that?”

“That’s a common misconception. Mages can learn the skill more easily, but others can develop it, too. If you like, I have a book on the subject you can read in the morning.”

“I… didn’t say I needed it.”

“I’m not the only one who cries out in my sleep,” Amelie said gently.

Cullen stared at her, though he could only see her outline in the dark.

“You keep doing things for me. Why?”

“Cullen. I’m your _healer._ I want you to be _well._ ”

He gave her a flat look before he remembered she couldn’t see it. But he supposed his silence probably served just as well.

“Are you always this suspicious?” she said with a small chuckle. “Fine. You _also_ remind me of someone I used to know.”

“The man in the portrait?”

“No,” she replied. Her voice was soft, but her answer was final. He wouldn’t get anywhere asking about that tonight.

Still, the thought that he might be able to _control_ his nightmares… which he’d never been able to do before…

“Why don’t you go rest, and we’ll talk about this more in the morning?”

Again, there was a finality to her tone that said she’d brook no argument about it.

“Will _you_ be all right?” he asked instead.

He could hear the smile in the warmth of her voice. “I’m fine. Thank you for checking on me.”

Cullen left the room, but he didn’t sleep again. If Amelie didn’t want him to pay with coin, he could at _least_ repay her kindness.

If only he knew how to do that.

 

* * *

 

After breakfast and a short visit from the barber Amelie had promised, Cullen stood in the healing house, trying not to pace with impatience. She was healing anyone who came through the doors -- mostly scraped knees and broken bones, easy enough with magic -- but _every time_ the door opened, Cullen expected it to be Harding. Or Amelie’s “memory loss expert.” But when he asked about that, Amelie just smiled and said it would be some time before the expert might arrive.

“Oh my gosh. Commander -- Cullen, I mean -- it’s… it’s _you.”_

A brown-haired dwarven woman stood in the doorway, staring at Cullen as if she’d seen a ghost. A little itch of a memory began to grow at the back of Cullen’s mind. He had seen her before. They’d worked together. She _charged_ forward and hugged him around the waist.

“Everyone was _so worried_ when you left, you didn’t tell us where you’d been going. The Inquisitor must have sent me out to look for you at least twenty times before I finally found you. She’s going to be _so relieved.”_

The Inquisitor. Cullen couldn’t recall her face, but… she’d been important. Not just in general, but to him, personally.

Amelie didn’t turn to them as she began to examine a young girl with a broken wrist. But she did call to them, though her voice sounded strained. Perhaps she was overextending herself? Though it was fairly early in the day…

“If you two would like to discuss this more privately, you can go upstairs,” she suggested.

Cullen nodded and led Harding up the stairs to the kitchen. The cat stared at them before walking off into Amelie’s room.

“Are you all right? How has this healer been treating you? We’re not working out of Skyhold anymore, but I’m sure we can find somewhere for you to stay while you recover --”

“I’m fine. I’m going to stay here,” he said. “At least for now.”

“Why _did_ you leave?”

“I… don’t know. I don’t remember a lot of things, and what I _do_ recall… it’s patchy, at best. Amelie -- er, the healer -- has some ideas to help with that, and I’d be foolish not to try.”

“That sounds like the Cullen I know,” Harding said with a smile. “Well, if you need anything…”

“Amelie suggested that I meet with as many people from my past as possible. If… if you know where any of them _are…_ ”

“Oh! Of course! Let me think… Dorian went back to Tevinter, so he might not be able to come. Varric is in Kirkwall, Sera… well, who _knows_ where she is… Josephine went home to Antiva, but she’ll be here in a heartbeat. Vivienne, Leliana, and Cassandra are in Val Royeaux. They’re probably your best bet.”

The names were overwhelming enough. He wasn’t at all certain he’d remember _any_ of these people.

“The Inquisitor… well, she’s kind of dropped off the map. But we could start looking with her clan --”

“No.”

He wasn’t certain why, exactly, he refused to look for the Inquisitor. Something told him it would be a bad idea.

“All right. If you change your mind, we can find her then. Who do you want to start with?”

“I --” He didn’t know how to answer that. He didn’t recall these people. How could he know who to contact?

“Hmm. Why don’t we tell _everybody?_ That way, _they_ can decide to come to _you_ when they can.”

Cullen sighed, relieved.

“Yes, I think -- just… not the Inquisitor. Yet.”

“Consider it done, Commander -- Cullen. Sorry. It’s still weird to get used to.”

 

* * *

 

_Lady Seeker,_

_We found the Commander. He’s alive, and he’s in a healing house in Val Chevin._

  
Cassandra was running for her horse before she read any further.

 

* * *

 

_His Excellency Viscount Tethras,_

_We found the Commander. He’s alive, and he’s in a healing house in Val Chevin. He has regained consciousness, as well as a few of his memories._

_While we understand if you’re unable to make the journey, his healer has asked if you possibly know the whereabouts of Fenris, as he has also experienced lyrium-related memory loss and may be able to advise Cullen about potentially regaining more memories and what he might expect._

Varric dropped his spectacles on his desk.

“Bran!” he called from his office.

“Yes, Your Excellency?” Bran gave a long-suffering sigh.

“I need to go to Orlais.”

 

* * *

 

_Magister Pavus,_

_We found the Commander. He’s alive, and he’s in a healing house in Val Chevin._

Dorian’s hands were shaking as he read on.

_He has regained consciousness, as well as a few of his memories. I understand if you’re unable to make the journey, but he asked that everyone be informed. His healer expects him to continue making progress, and anticipates a recovery to full strength, even if he does not get all of his memories back._

“Interesting reading?” Maevaris, a fellow magister and dear friend, leaned over the table, one of her eyebrows quirked.

“You could say that. A friend of mine had been missing. He was... found recently.”

“The templar?”

“Yes. He’s… he’s alive, and he’s healing.”

“Are you going to see him?”

Dorian bit his lip, nervous. “... Do you think I should?”

“I think you have to.”

 

* * *

 

_Lady Ambassador,_

_We found the Commander. He’s alive, and he’s in a healing house in Val Chevin._

_He has regained consciousness, as well as a few of his memories. I understand if you’re unable to make the journey, but he asked that everyone be informed. His healer expects him to continue making progress, and anticipates a recovery to full strength, even if he does not get all of his memories back._

Josephine clutched the letter to her chest for one moment, stifling her tears before she read on.

_His healer and I will keep you informed about his condition, if anything else should happen._

_Sincerely,_

_Lace Harding_

She penned an elegant but heartfelt reply on the best stationery she had, as well as a thank-you and promise of payment to the healer, before starting to make the necessary arrangements to visit Val Chevin.

 

* * *

 

_First Enchanter, Lady Vivienne,_

_We found the Commander. He’s alive, and he’s in a healing house in Val Chevin._

_He has regained consciousness, as well as a few of his memories. I understand if you’re unable to make the journey, but he asked that everyone be informed. His healer expects him to continue making progress, and anticipates a recovery to full strength, even if he does not get all of his memories back._

Vivienne made a note alongside the letter, to look for any books on lyrium addiction and recovery before she made the trip to visit Cullen.

 

* * *

 

_Your Perfection,_

“Did you read it?” Cassandra asked, bursting through the door.

“I was about to,” Leliana said.

“Harding found him. He’s in Val Chevin.”

Leliana nodded, then went to change before the two of them traveled to the healing house together.

 

* * *

 

“Nervous?” Amelie asked him over dinner that night.

“I -- yes. Val Royeaux isn’t far, and… I don’t know if I’m the man they remember.”

“I don’t think you’ll disappoint them, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said.

“You don’t?”

“They might be angry that you’ve worried them, but you’re alive and you’re recovering, and that’s what will win out. They care about _you_ , Cullen.”

He was silent for a few moments as he ate his dinner. He didn't remember any of the people Harding mentioned -- at least, not by name. How could he be sure they cared about him. How could  _Amelie_ be so sure? And yet, she spoke with the utmost confidence, as if it were a terribly obvious fact and not wild speculation.

“You can study up on lucid dreaming in the meantime,” Amelie suggested.

“How… do I do it?”

“The book explains it better than I could -- but I can give you some tips. Like any skill, it takes practice, and you’ll improve over time,” she explained. “You can start by writing down everything you remember from your dreams as soon as you wake up. Over time, common themes and patterns will emerge, and you can keep an eye out for them while you dream. You can also give yourself ‘reality checks’ throughout the day. Once they’re a habit, you’ll do them in your dreams as well.”

“What sort of reality checks?”

“Well, I used to do this.”

Amelie held up her hands, and pushed one index finger into her opposite palm.

“In a dream, my finger would go _through_ my hand, which made it a great cue. You can also check the time. In a dream, a clock will be distorted and the sun won’t stay put in the sky, so it won’t be the same time twice. Anything you can make into a habit in the waking world that would be different in a dream will do just fine as a reality check,” she said. “Once you can control your dreams, you may even be able to get spirits to help you with your memories.”

_“What?”_ Cullen was dumbfounded.

“The theory is sound, though I have to admit I haven’t tried it myself. I haven’t needed to. If our expert comes, which might take a few weeks, we can ask him what he’s had success with. In the meantime, learning to lucid dream will help with your nightmares, regardless of whether you regain memories from it. If you’re aware that you’re dreaming, tell the spirits to show you a memory of a particular time. Say, the day you decided to become a templar, or your first kiss. Something of that nature. You’ll want to be specific.”

“Why would spirits have my memories?” he asked.

“A good question. Having spoken to a few, I can tell you that spirits are curious about us. They want to know what we experience, and sometimes, they get attached. Not like possession,” she added hastily. “But they get… invested in our stories. And they don’t experience time in a linear way, like we do. ‘Past’ and ‘present’ are meaningless distinctions to them. They can look at an object -- a ring, say -- and tell you all about the people who wore it and what they were feeling. So they can tell you about yourself just by looking at you. Creepy, but potentially useful in situations like this.”

Cullen was quiet, thoughtful. Amelie let him digest the information.

“Thank you,” he said, as the silence started to get awkward.

“You don’t have to thank me,” she replied. “Just doing my job.”

She got up from the table and went down the stairs. It seemed she did that every evening after dinner.

Cullen lifted both of his hands, pushing one index finger into the opposite palm.

He had work to do.


End file.
